


cupid's chassé

by timelessidyll



Series: set my heart on fire [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: 2tae if you squint super hard into a crystal ball, Alternate Universe - Sports, Blood and Injury, Childhood Friends, Confessions, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, archer donghyuck, at the very end only tho, figure skater mark, i think? still dunno how to use that tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 22:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15894990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelessidyll/pseuds/timelessidyll
Summary: A chassé is a chasing movement. It's a simple element of figure skating, used to transition between more complex elements, such as jumps and sequences.Donghyuck feels like he's chasing something that continues to glide effortlessly on, just out of reach.





	cupid's chassé

**Author's Note:**

> this is actually pretty much a collab with me and ri because she hyped me up throughout the whole thing lmao

It was Donghyuck’s idea to come to the skating rink in the first place, but he could say with total confidence that he isn’t enjoying it as much as he thought he would. The idea had come to him while he was with Mark, as you would usually find him, at his house. He remembered watching some sports competition, but he doesn’t quite remember the name now. Something that started with an “O”? He’d been annoying Mark to come play something else with him, paying the bare minimum attention to the screen – up until the music began.

 

He doesn’t know how to describe what he felt, but it was a feeling of sadness that didn’t necessarily feel wrong. He thought it was like when Mark said that his parents wanted to take them somewhere, a singular moment of gloominess before he realized that it was part of growing older and taking on new responsibilities. 

 

His attention is back on the TV that he’d been spending the past thirty minutes trying to move Mark away from, but instead of a weird sledding sport, there was a man dancing. He wasn’t just dancing either, but he was dancing on ice. Donghyuck searched the screen for a name for the name of the – sport? Was it a sport? – event, catching the flashing words “Men’s Figure Skating” at the bottom of the screen. Figure skating. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at the dancing man, watched the flakes of ice fly around his skates as he made designs with the blades. He’s an emotional person by nature, so it’s no surprise that the pure love with which the man skated enraptured him. He wanted to be able to express himself like that. Which was why the moment the music ended, he’d turned to Mark with the shining eyes of a young boy with an excitingly stupid idea and said, “We should go figure skating!” Mark’s dad, who’d been in the same room at the time, laughed at his enthusiasm, while Mark himself just gave him a confused tilt of his head.

 

“We’ve gone skating plenty of times, Hyuck,” he says with the same expression. “And you hated it.” Donghyuck rolled his eyes.

 

“That’s because we never did anything cool, Mark. We just skated in circles and that’s boring.” He dragged the “boring,” emphasizing it comically. “But jumping and fancy moves seems like so much more fun!”

 

“If you boys really want to go skating so badly, we could go to the skating rink and get some basic lessons.” Donghyuck brightened up infinitely, straightening himself from his slouch to talk to Mark so suddenly he almost stood up. Mark fell back to avoid his flailing limbs.

 

“Really, Uncle Jiwon? Thank you!” He jumped up this time, bouncing in place with uncontainable excitement, while Mark watched him with a practiced resignation and his dad laughed.

 

Mark was already laced up, his quick movements nothing like the clumsy ones Donghyuck used. He’d been right when he’d brought up the fact that he doesn’t like ice skating. It was annoying seeing Mark speed ahead on the ice when they were only traveling around the outside over and over. Mark’s brother, Jason, had taught him from an even earlier age than when Donghyuck had come to Canada at three-years-old and started skating at seven. It was a staple of living in Vancouver. Which meant Mark had almost five years more experience and was going at Donghyuck’s pace just to be nice.

 

He’s nine, not four, he thinks glumly, as Mark grabs hold of his arm to keep him standing. His resulting pout has Mark cracking a smile of amusement. He skates gingerly, with Mark’s continued support, over to where the other children are gathered around the instructor. It’s accidental that he tunes out everything she says, mostly because she doesn’t sound very interested either. He’s staring at her the whole time, but none of it processes very well in his head up until she starts herding them toward some cones set up close to the wall.

 

“Mark,” he whispers with a tug on his shirt sleeve, “what is she telling us to do?”

 

“We’re learning how to differentiate the inner and outer edges,” Mark whispers back, sounding more excited than Donghyuck. Donghyuck turns and narrows his eyes judgingly at the instructor.

 

“I don’t think I like her.”

 

“Don’t worry, Hyuck, I’ll teach you.” While the instructor starts telling the little kids how to change which edge their skating on, Mark relays the same information to Donghyuck in a more interesting way so that he’s up to speed with what’s going on. It was difficult for him to get the hang of switching his weight to ride the inside or outside edge instead of skating flat edged. The trick, Mark tries to teach him, is centering your weight so you felt more in control, but that doesn’t really make sense to Donghyuck. He nearly falls over countless times, and the only thing that helps him is the fact that he has two years of experience keeping him, at the very least, on his feet.

 

Mark’s eyes are practically sparking with energy, is Donghyuck’s only thought throughout the hour-long session. He seemed like he was excited to learn these little technicalities that evaded Donghyuck, but it also could be that he understood their importance a little more. Donghyuck isn’t stupid, he knows that to be good at anything you have to master the small things, but he can’t focus that hard. It’s like the skates are an unwanted limb, too clumsy to be of any use. When they’re dismissed, he gives up entirely and clings to Mark so that he can drag both of them out of the rink, much to Mark’s mom’s delight. She whips out her phone to take a picture of the moment, laughing in short bursts like Mark does when Donghyuck does something funny-bordering-stupid like climb onto the roof of the playground equipment and mimic being pushed off the plank by pirates. If they’d been any older, Donghyuck was sure Mark would have reacted like an adult and yelled at him.

 

“So how was it?” Mark’s mom asked while they took their skates off. Mark’s smile gave him away before he even started talking, but Donghyuck was more subdued. She noticed quickly, and after listening to Mark’s happy ramblings about all the new things he’d learned about skating, she turned to him expectantly.

 

“I don’t like it much,” Donghyuck said. His decisive tone made Mark’s smile dim. Donghyuck decided he didn’t like how Mark looked when he was sad. “But if Mark likes it, then I guess it’s not awful.”

 

Two years flash by like lightning, although Donghyuck knows that the memories he has say otherwise. He remembers going to Mark’s first competition earlier this year, watching as Mark’s feet hit the ice again and again, waiting with bated breaths to see if his ankle would hold up and continue. He’d seen Mark fall so many times at his practices that he worried about him more than usual, which meant he insulted him more than usual. The mantra of calling his best friend a stupid, reckless idiot had become a habit every time he had to take a break to ice his swollen ankle.

 

But when Mark had ended in his final pose with nothing more than an exhausted smile and harsh breathing, Donghyuck had felt his tense body relax and melt into his sweater, barely protecting him from the cold metal of the bench he sat on. Mark had gotten fourth after both the short and free programs, and while Donghyuck knew it wasn’t what Mark had been hoping for, he saw the image of Mark today as one that was leagues ahead of his younger self. Not that he’d tell him, of course. Afterward, when they’d filed out to wait for him to come out, he’d given him a light punch and told him that he should work on his landings more so that he wouldn’t have a heart attack each time. His threatening tone disguised some of his worry and made both Jason and Mark’s mom laugh, but Mark only smiled a little wider and swung an arm around Donghyuck’s shoulders.

 

They’re in gym, and after a certain point in sixth grade, Donghyuck had realized that the class was useless and only served as an unnecessary credit. They only play dodgeball and kickball, and once in a while they pull out some deflated footballs and kick them around on the grass field outside. Mark’s not in his period this year either, which he finds to be yet another disappointing point of the class. His teacher only cares about whether you’re present for attendance, so he takes advantage of his disinterest and rummages in the storeroom for something to make the forty-five minutes of the period less miserable and mind-numbing. Usually, he only comes up with the occasional golf club and badminton rackets, which he found an incredibly stupid sport to spend school funding on, but on a freeze-your-ass-off December day, he found something way more interesting.

 

It was a bow, he recognized that much, but it didn’t look like the simple wooden bows he always read about in books or that he saw in movies. The closest comparison, he thought as he examined it closely, would be Hawkeye’s bow. It had wheels at the top and bottom and three sets of strings, and it took him seven minutes to figure out how to pull it back. It took another two minutes to figure out up and down on the bow and how to hold it. He gets comfortable with the grip, but the fleeting thought that he has no idea where this bow has been takes root in his mind and he drops it in a hanging net without a second of hesitancy. He searches for some arrows to use, maybe a target if he gets lucky.

 

The arrows are inside a rolled-up yoga mat – why they have yoga mats at all baffles Donghyuck even more than the golf clubs – but he doesn’t find any targets or any more arrows. It’s not a big deal, he could use one of the footballs they threw back in here when they got too flat. The bow is heavy and the string is difficult to pull, and he has no confidence he’s even pulling it correctly, but the uncertainty feels refreshing. Exciting. Inspiriting. He misses the makeshift target, a bean bag toss hole, by miles, but the failure doesn’t shake him. He doesn’t want to lose this feeling.

 

After school, when they’re supposed to be walking home together because Donghyuck’s mom is paranoid and doesn’t want her very non-white immigrant son walking around attracting the wrong attention (which Donghyuck doesn’t like to think about because it brings back a time when he hadn’t known Mark and everything was scary and dangerous), he drags Mark into the storage room (which Donghyuck picked the lock to because he’d learned how to do that for fun last summer) to show off the cool setup he’d made for himself. He’d cleared the path across the storage room, although he hadn’t actually organized anything to make it better. If anything, it was even messier than before, and Mark eyes the walls of forgotten equipment.

 

“If we die under a mountain of smelly football jerseys and old dodgeballs,” he says while Donghyuck looks for where he put the bow and arrows, “I’m haunting you in our afterlife.” Donghyuck laughs, a half giggle-half snorting sound, and turns around with the bow held high in the air, showing off his champion seeking skills. Mark stares at it blankly, with that wide-eyed look he gets when he’s trying to figure something out (usually why Donghyuck’s in a bad mood or a stupidly tricky algebra problem).

 

“Is that a bow?” he asks hesitantly, and Donghyuck nods. He’s glad the multiple falls his friends has suffered through practicing hasn’t hurt his intelligence too significantly.

 

“Yes, it is dear Markiepoo,” he says with a devilish lilt, knowing full well how much Mark hated the nickname. As desired, Mark’s face soured and he looked vaguely offended that Donghyuck would not only drag him into a musty storage room but then insult him immediately afterward. “Isn’t it cool? I found it during gym and I figured out a way to shoot it.” He demonstrates his knowledge, although it’s a process that takes a while longer than he would’ve liked because of his unfamiliarity with the equipment. When he finally strings the arrow, however, he settles back into the headspace he’d found himself in earlier, taking a slow breath as he aligns the arrow with the target, which is a shrunken basketball for this round, as approximately as he can. When he’d chosen the basketball, he hadn’t been expecting to hit it at all.

 

Which made the sudden pop as it lost all of its air a shock that had both Donghyuck and Mark make yelping sounds like terrified puppies.

 

They look at each other, taking in the other’s paler face, and Donghyuck can’t help but let out a choked giggle because Mark looks even more like a ghost now than he usually does. Mark follows suit, more so out of the fact that he’s more sensitive to people’s moods, but they’re on the ground, shaking from laughter even though the situation wasn’t even that funny. They let it go on for some time until the laughter dies in their stomachs. Donghyuck pushes himself up first, retrieving the arrow from the limp basketball shell and staring at the point with concealed admiration.

 

“Why did you want to show me that, Hyuck?” Mark asks. He hasn’t moved from his starfish position on the floor, probably because his legs ache from the workouts he does. Donghyuck makes a mental reminder to do something over the weekend that’s as inactive as possible to give his muscles time to rest. He’s practically been Mark’s unofficial personal trainer for the past year anyway. He takes time to mull over how to put his feelings into words the best way he can.

 

“It’s like breathing fresh air after you’ve been stuck in a car with your family for eight hours straight,” he decides on. The analogy throws Mark into a fit, laughs and coughs alternating with each other and bringing him to tears even though Donghyuck doesn’t think it’s really all that funny. “I’m tired of doing something boring, I want something new and cool. What’s cooler than being able to shoot a bow?”

 

“It’s like a gun, but less likely to get in legal trouble.”

 

“Exactly.” Donghyuck uses the arrow he’d just grabbed as a finger and points it at Mark. Mark hums and sits up, reaching out a hand expectantly. He sighs, tucks the arrow under his arm, and uses his measly body weight to haul Mark to his feet. He’s grateful that Mark doesn’t push it further and ask if he’ll go somewhere with this because he doesn’t know. This is different than his passing love for crocheting and track, but he’s not sure if it’ll turn out like they did. Mark has always been good at understanding his mind even when Donghyuck doesn’t.

 

It’s tough to decide, but when two months pass by and Donghyuck is still practicing his bad form with a confusing bow and pathetic targets, he finally asks his mom if he can try archery lessons. After all, crochet and track had both only lasted for three weeks.

 

He’s been taking lessons for five straight months and he’s finally learned the ins and outs of archery. He can properly pull a bowstring and nock an arrow, and he’s learned some basics of how to adjust his aim to get as close to the center as possible. He’d brought Mark to one of his practices and watched as his eyes became wider and wider as he shot arrow after arrow into the innermost red circle and bordered the edge of the outermost yellow circle. He’s impressed at his own improvement and dedication, really, because this is the longest he’s ever tied himself to something voluntarily – other than Mark, of course, but he didn’t think another person really counts in this situation. He enrolls in his first competition and gets third place, shocking both his parents, Mark and his family, and his dog Fifi. He plays it off coolly, but internally he’s freaking out. It convinces his parents that maybe continuing archery was something feasible and that he wouldn’t drop it out of nowhere. He’d be offended if he didn’t know himself any better.

 

It’s Mark’s congratulation that means the most to him in the end. Sure, he’s happy his parents have a sudden burst of faith in his attention span, and he’s happy that Uncle Jiwon, Aunt Seohyeon, and Jason are excited about his placement, and Fifi’s excited yipping is always music to his ears. But Mark has a comforting smile when he congratulates him, one that says “You’re home.” Because it’s true; Donghyuck feels at home, with the absolute clarity that fills him when he stands on the field and draws his bow and feels the tremble of his arm to keep it in place. The sharp tug when he releases and the thump of the arrow in the target. Donghyuck feels adrenalized, ready for anything archery can throw his way.

 

Apparently, archery can throw a lot his way.  Like ten grueling hours of practice a week, two hours for five days. One day of intense workouts and smaller, less intensive ones throughout the week. One day of rest. Because apparently he had potential to be scouted, and that meant he had to work harder than anyone who wanted to do archery for fun.

 

He had a new level of respect for Mark.

 

In junior year, Donghyuck feels the inexplicable need to throw himself into a vat of hot wax. Madame Tussaud would get a kick out of that, he thinks to himself with his face buried into his calculus textbook and the pencil graphite rubbing on his cheeks. When Jason had warned them about the horror of junior year, Donghyuck and Mark had given him a skeptical look but had gone along with it anyway. He regrets not taking that more seriously because now he has exams every other week and a constant pain in his hand that not even a quick massage could alleviate.

 

Across the table, Lucas, as Xuxi said he preferred to be called when they first met him in their freshman year, was in a similar position as he was. Except instead of trying to absorb the information through osmosis, Lucas was taking a nice, forty-five-minute long nap, because that is exactly how long their study period is. Mark is sitting to the side of him, scratching diligently on the paper with his pencil. Donghyuck makes a sound like a crying sheep (yes, that’s what it sounded like, he watched a video about it before) and lets this aching hand flop across their side of the table to land on the left page of the textbook Mark has open. He doesn’t say anything else, simply trying to get his point across with miming and charades, but Mark is a master at his unspoken inquiries and easily picks up on the fact that Donghyuck’s hand is hurting too much to hold a pencil.

 

He picks it up and gently begins to smooth his thumbs along the muscles and tendons of his hands, working them in small circles in the area between his knuckles and wrist. It only provides a momentary relief before the prickling pain is back, but he takes what he can get.

 

“Your hands are so callous,” Mark says absently, still focusing on massaging his hands. Donghyuck waits for some sort of explanation, but Mark doesn’t say anything else. He shifts his face so that he can see him with one eye.

 

“Are you going to finish that thought?” Mark looks at him like he asked if the Earth is round.

 

“What thought? I don’t think I said anything.” Donghyuck narrows his eyes.

 

“No, you just said that my hands are callous.” Not even a flicker of recognition crosses Mark’s face, but he does flush, probably because he’s embarrassed that he managed to completely forget about the instance.

 

“Oh, uh, sorry about that. Just came to my mind.” Mark’s stuttering his way through his explanation, and Donghyuck would typically take this opportunity to laugh at him for it, but he stays silent. “Your hands used to be really soft. I guess I wasn’t expecting this.” He stops awkwardly and Donghyuck wonders what he might have continued with.  _ Change _ , maybe. There have been a lot of changes lately, and Donghyuck isn’t sure how many of them he likes.

 

They haven’t been able to hang out as much recently. School eats up a lot of time, as does training (training for what, Donghyuck wonders to his ceiling at night), and even beside that they have the toughest exams of their life in this year, so if they’re not in school and they’re not training, they’re hunched over textbooks in their respective houses. It’s making him feel numb to the passing of the days, and he’s afraid of that. He’s always felt too much too strongly, and not feeling anything at all is scary. He feels awkward bringing it up to Mark, though. He tells himself it’s because he’s probably going through the same thing, if not feeling worse, and complaining about important things like this has never really been his style. 

 

He knows they’re trying their hardest, but he’s afraid that it’s not enough. Not enough for them, not enough for their sports, not enough to keep them sane.

 

He wishes he hadn’t been so right.

 

One month before their final exams, Donghyuck finally breaks down. He thinks it’s over a stupid reason – an idiotic, nonsensical reason, but it tips him over all the same. They’re all gathered together somehow – him, Mark, and Lucas – through some miracle of aligning schedules. They’re studying biology, which Donghyuck hates with a passion, but even now they only emotion filling him is irritation. He’s overwhelmed: from stress, from his senses, from this feeling of constant unease that he’s not doing enough and he’s throwing his life away in a risky gamble. His pencil hurts his hand even through the layers of bandages protecting his fingers and blisters, and he’s so distracted that he can’t even focus on Mark and Lucas discussing genetic strands and how traits are influenced.

 

He doesn’t remember what makes him snap, whether it’s hearing the word “Punnett squares” for the fifth time in two minutes or whether it’s the pain in his hand, but one second he’s staring at his notebook with indifference and the next he’s thrown both his textbook and notebook at the wall and cut Lucas off. He doesn’t look at them, only stares at Mark’s Coldplay poster with an anger that threatens to make him cry silent tears, but he knows that they’re shocked at his outburst and unsure what to say to him or make of the situation.

 

For a while longer, Donghyuck has to swallow his cries and force his eyes to stop wavering to keep the tears at bay. Mark takes the initiative, asks Lucas if he could give them some time, to which he says that it’s probably best if they end today’s studying session altogether. When the door to Mark’s room closes, Donghyuck still doesn’t move, but he hears the soft rustle of clothes against carpet that tells him Mark has started moving.

 

“Don’t,” he says. He winces at his own voice crack, but he doesn’t really want Mark to look him right in the face. He doesn’t feel very proud of himself right now.

 

“Okay.” The silence is back, with Donghyuck refusing to move and Mark staring at him. He knows he is, feels the eyes on him. He takes a shaky breath and decides he’s being even more immature, so he might as well push through it. He turns to Mark and nearly lets the tears loose. Mark looks so worried that he’s almost in tears too, and now he feels guilty on top of everything else.

 

“Talk to me, Hyuck.” It’s soft, a plea, and Donghyuck wants to unload it all but he settles for this.

 

“I’m sorry I ruined the study session,” he begins quietly, and he’s already cut off.

 

“I don’t care about the study session, Hyuck, and I bet Lucas doesn’t either. I just want you to be okay.” Donghyuck watches the door handle behind Mark instead of looking him in the eye.

 

“I know, but. I shouldn’t have interrupted like that. I’m so tired of being stressed, I wasn’t thinking straight.”

 

Once again, softer.

 

“Talk to me.”

 

He does. He talks about it all, spills everything that’s been weighing him down since sophomore year started and he’d begun to feel like juggling training and school wasn’t going to work out. Mark listens, and by the end, when Donghyuck is certain he’s cried enough to fill a small ditch, Mark’s hugging him, telling him that he’ll be alright, that they’ll make it through. Donghyuck wants to believe him, but he can’t push the fear out. The fear that he’ll be the one to give in and fall farther behind because Mark has always been the shinier one, the untouchable one, the invincible one. That’s how it’s always been, since the moment he met him on the playground in kindergarten.

 

That’s one thing he doesn’t want to change. If it does, he might never find stability again.

 

“Donghyuck!” His voice is breathy and exhausted, and he already knows it’s because he was working out before the call. They’ve just begun their senior year, but they’re so close to graduating Donghyuck can taste it. The celebratory pizza, of course, because it’s been about eight months since he last let himself have that sort of cheat day. He blinks to clear his mind and focus on Mark.

 

“You sound excited, what happened?” he asks. It’s casual, but he can feel the excitement in Mark’s voice getting to him. At seventeen (and one hundred-something days, Donghyuck doesn’t care about the specifics like the record books do), Mark became the youngest Canadian skater to medal at the World Championship, but even before that, at fifteen he medaled in the Four Continents Championship. His bronze from Worlds and silver from the 4CC hang on special hooks in his bedroom, taken care of by Donghyuck more than the winner himself.

 

Mark’s voice comes out in a rush, but with his experience, Donghyuck is able to decipher his words. “They want to send me to the Olympics!”

 

He experiences a lot of things in that moment. Shock, clear-cut as a diamond. Excitement for his best friend. Fear, oddly enough, and he doesn’t know for what. But he settles on shocked excitement and pushes the fear aside.

 

“That’s not a joke, right? You really got invited to the Olympics?”

 

“The 2018 Olympics in Pyeongchang!” Mark says, laughing delightedly on the other end. There’s a twinge in Donghyuck’s heart. He misses Korea more than he thinks he should when he grew up for so long away from it, but he wishes he could experience his homeland again.

 

“Mark.” He pauses as he collects himself, thinks of how best to explain it. “I’m so proud of you,” he settles on, holding back from tearing up. He remembers the long hours when he would end up shivering at the side of the rink, watching Mark like a hawk for a single sign of a dangerous injury. He’d become well-versed in analyzing his fatigue symptoms, had made it his own mission to take care of Mark on top of himself. And now he’s going to the Olympics.

 

“Hyuck, you better come with me.” Donghyuck’s brain blanks on him. Mark must have taken his silence for confusion because he pushes on. “You’ve supported me the whole time, and if you’re not there I–.” Mark stops for a moment. “It’ll feel incomplete.”

 

“I’ll have to check to see if I have a competition,” Donghyuck finally says, “But if I don’t, there’s no way I’m not going.”

 

Donghyuck says his goodbyes, mind still numb to the news, but the giddiness is overtaking him. Mark’s done it.

 

Then the fear comes back from where he’d pushed it down. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to do the same.

 

Pyeongchang is exactly what he expects and yet it isn’t. The familiar elements jump out first: the delicious smells of food, the chatter of Korean in more intensity than he’d ever heard, Mark next to him in the crowded marketplace. Then the unfamiliar elements jump out: the unease of feeling he’s not Korean enough to be here, the hawking and bargaining of the marketplace, Mark’s arm around his waist and his hand burning a hole into Donghyuck’s t-shirt. That last part isn’t true, but Donghyuck thinks that the hyperbole is reasonable in context. It’s the first time Mark has ever held him so closely for no reason (because it’s not like he’ll get lost in the crowd, he has a phone and Mark’s contact on emergency speed dial), and Donghyuck isn’t sure what to think. He isn’t even sure why he’s making a big deal about it.

 

“Look! It’s tteokbokki!” Mark points at the stall that caught his eye. Donghyuck isn’t going to say no to tteokbokki, so he lets them get dragged over to the other side of the street, unable to ignore how Mark’s hand tightens on his waist to keep them together. He absently chews on the street food after they bought it, comparing it to his mother’s and suddenly wishing she was here too.

 

“I haven’t had this in a long time,” Donghyuck admits. He has to repeat himself a little louder when Mark looks at him questioningly.

 

“Me neither. I think the last time I had tteokbokki was when I was really young, like six?” Donghyuck hums in response. He glances at his watch, pursing his lips when he sees that it’s 5:17.

 

“Mark, we have to be back at the hotel by six for your familiarization.” Mark gives him a blank stare. “You know, the thing where you get a feel of the rink and area you’ll be skating in? You’ve done this in every competition since you first entered Worlds.” That seems to jog his memory because Mark slaps a hand against his cheek.

 

“Shit, yeah,” he swears, a rare instance. Donghyuck shakes his head with exasperation and grabs Mark’s hand to start pulling him through the crowd.

 

“You’d probably die if I wasn’t here,” he mumbles more to himself than Mark. “Get lost in Pyeongchang and die before your event.”

 

In a strong case of selective hearing, Mark hears him, because he squeezes Donghyuck’s hand tightly and says, “You’re right.”

 

He hates how it makes a warmth spread through him, starting at his heart.

 

Mark always excels at his short program, mostly because he doesn’t have to fill the time with four more jumps and more jump combinations. And routine has always fit him more easily than expression. When it comes to deciding on a theme for his free skate, he struggles with the idea that to convey the emotions of the theme he needs to dance that way. It’s no surprise that he’s in second place at the end of the short program with a total of 107.68, but Donghyuck worries about the free skate the next day. He’d noticed Mark’s right ankle had a taken a little bit of unnecessary strain during his quadruple Lutz and quadruple flip-triple Axel sequence, and he’d limped a bit toward the kiss and cry. He might be worried for nothing, but with figure skating injuries he’s always thought it’s better to be safe than sorry.

 

“You’re not going anywhere for the rest of the day,” Donghyuck tells him, finality clear in the glare he gives Mark, daring him to argue. All he gets is a wince, which causes the anger to melt and concern to replace it.

 

“I’m not gonna say no. My ankle isn’t exactly feeling the whole ‘walking around for two hours’ deal right now.” Donghyuck pulls out the cold compression wrap he’d brought with him and takes a minute to sit Mark down and wrap his ankle.

 

“Alright, that should hold you until we get you back to your room.” Donghyuck lets Mark stand up, watching Mark’s leg closely in case it decides to give out on him. After confirming that walking wouldn’t be a problem, he stops acting like Mark’s coach, which was Johnny’s job anyway, and hugs him with a sudden fierceness brought on by pride.

 

“I’m so proud of you,” he mumbles into his shoulder. The pale blue fabric is scratchy on his face and he wonders how Mark managed to skate a whole short program in it. “You put your all into that, I could feel it. It was your best short program ever.” Mark hugs him back with just as much intensity.

 

“Wouldn’t be possible if you weren’t there every step of the way.”

 

“The next competitor, in second place after the short program yesterday with 107.68 points, is Mark Lee representing Canada.” Mark steps out on the ice, his wine red outfit and burnished orange sash reminding Donghyuck of a prince. Donghyuck pays little attention to the announcer, focusing on Mark and waiting for him to make eye contact. When he does, Donghyuck mimes the breathing exercise he always does before he steps on the ice, and the thankful smile puts him at ease for this pre-skate moment. It obviously only lasts until the moment the music starts. The tension returns as Mark raises his arms to begin his routine, mimicking a ballerina, pushing off the ice to begin skating. The music is melancholic, but not without a hint of hopefulness. It mournfully sings for a love thought to be lost, but there’s the flickering hope that it will come back. Donghyuck had found it an interesting choice when Mark first presented it to him, but after his watching the tentative choreography for the first time, he believed Mark could pull it off. Even with the difficulty he’d added.

 

He’s been the talk of the figure skating community ever since he’d revealed his free skate program had a quadruple Axel and a quadruple flip planned – in the second half. He’d gotten critics doubting him and fans worrying about and supporting him, but it all came down to the moment. How he would handle the pressure and fatigue, how much he would allow the music and his muscles to lead him.

 

He gets through the first half flawlessly, and Donghyuck finds himself holding his breath on the quadruple Lutz. That was the jump that would dictate his ability continuing through the rest of the song. When he lands solidly, without the heaviness yesterday had, Donghyuck lets himself breathe. He can’t have himself passing out right before the biggest moment in Mark’s career. The music picks up, reaching for the crescendo; Mark picks up speed, reaching for the gold. He prepares to take off, and Donghyuck doesn’t detect a slip, and in less than a two seconds, Mark’s back on the ice, continuing his program without a hitch, and the gasp he lets out is choked and breathless. He can feel the tears emerging as Mark finishes his last jump, the quadruple flip. The end of the routine is when the music fades with a single note, his final position of someone reaching for something in front of them with one hand and holding that arm back with their other hand at the same time.

 

A beat of silence where the only thing heard is the ventilation and the hushed breathing of the people of the arena, and then a burst of applause, deafening cheers, and camera clicks. Flowers and plushes get thrown onto the ice as Mark relaxes and embraces the crowd’s support, bowing in every direction and then repeating it again. He’s exhausted, Donghyuck can tell, but he’s smiling and his legs are only shaking from fatigue, so he lets himself get caught up with the rest of the crowd. Mark leaves the arena and greets Johnny, using his arms as support as he steps off the rink and puts on the skate guards. Donghyuck’s eyes are glued to the screen projecting the kiss and cry, waiting for Mark and Johnny to appear and sit down. The proud smile on Johnny’s face mirrors Donghyuck’s own, and the arena seems to quiet down in anticipation of the final score.

 

“After a spectacular and flawlessly-executed free skate,” the announcer begins, and this time Donghyuck is blocking everything else out to focus on what he’s saying. “Mark Lee earned a score of 220.13, for a total of 327.81!” The announcer went on to say it was an Olympic record, but Donghyuck’s back to paying more attention to Mark’s face. He’s slack-jawed from surprise, but Johnny’s gripping his shoulders and pulling him into a hug, and after a few seconds to let it sink in – the crowd yelling, the score itself, the announcers calling him a legend – Mark returns Johnny’s hug and seems to melt, all the energy leaving him as he realizes he’s finished.

 

Mark stands on the podium to receive the gold medal next to the silver medalist, Renjun Huang from China, and the bronze medalist, Mateo Velez of Spain at the medal ceremony. Donghyuck still hasn’t been allowed to go to Mark so he settles for watching the screen as Mark leans down to accept the gold medal, taking the celebratory pictures on the podium and with the other skaters. Donghyuck has a vague memory of Renjun’s routine, incorporating traditional Chinese music and dance moves with the different elements he used. Ingenious, really, and Donghyuck thinks that he deserves that silver medal. It’s still settling in that Mark – his Mark – is now a legendary Olympic gold medalist.

 

When they finally let him in, Mark’s unsuspecting of his arrival, talking to Renjun with his back turned. Donghyuck doesn’t give a single warning as he jumps onto his back, knowing him well enough that Mark would either choose to stumble into the couch he’s standing next to or balance Donghyuck on his back. Probably because Renjun is right in front of him, Mark grunts and takes the weight, taking only one step forward before he’s regained his balance. Then Donghyuck gets reminded of Mark’s ankle and he immediately jumps off.

 

“Shit, your ankle, is it okay? I didn’t hurt it did I?” He flits around nervously in front of Mark, going back and forth between getting an ice compress and thinking that Mark will be alright. Mark snorts at Donghyuck’s worry and waves him off.

 

“You’re fine, it had plenty of time to rest the past week.” Donghyuck breathes a heavy sigh of relief. “Renjun, this is my best friend Donghyuck.” He spins around and puts on his sunniest smile. Renjun’s smile is a little more awkward, and he goes for a bow, which makes Donghyuck panic and return the bow with more haste. There’s no doubt it looked really messy, but the only person who saw him clearly was Mark, so it’s not that bad.

 

“It’s nice to meet you, Renjun. Congratulations on the silver.” He realizes a little late that it might sound a little condescending and he hurries to correct himself. “I mean, your performance was amazing, you absolutely deserved to medal.” Mark laughs at his awkward cover-up. His dark skin has a few benefits, and Donghyuck is thankful that one of them is concealing his lesser blushes.

 

“Thank you, Donghyuck.” Donghyuck is a little surprised at his English and how his accent is almost indiscernible and then feels bad about doubting him. In such an international sport, Renjun must have had more than enough practice with his English, and even the fact that he’d bothered to learn was commendable. “Mark’s talked a little bit about you. You’re an archer, correct?”

 

“Yes.” He glances at Mark, surprised that he’d brought up his profession. “I compete internationally and I’ve won the 2017 World Championship. For outdoor recurve, at least.” He purses his lips when Renjun’s expression goes from polite interest to confusion. “Yeah, it’s a little confusing. To put it simply, there are two types of bows, recurve and compound, and different types of archery. So there’s a champion in each type for each bow. And just like every other sport, men and women are separate. Does that make sense?”

 

“A little,” Renjun confirms, and then he sighs. “Lele, you’re not very discreet. You’ve never managed to surprise me before.” A boy around the same height as Renjun pops up from behind him with a slight pout on his lips. He’s got blond hair and he’s wearing a black suit – complete with a black shirt and tie. 

 

“There’s no harm in trying,” the boy hums, a mischievous smile on his face. Mark seems to recognize the new person because he snaps his fingers quickly, a habit of his when he’s trying to remember something.

 

“I know you! You’re,” Mark furrows his eyebrows to concentrate. “Renjun’s boyfriend? I’m sorry, I don’t exactly remember your name.”

 

“That’s alright! I’m Chenle Zhong. You’re Mark Lee and,” Chenle’s eyes fall on him. “Oh, I don’t think I know you yet.”

 

“Donghyuck Lee. I’m an archer,”

 

“That’s right! Mark’s mentioned you in interviews, but I never had a face to match to the name. Nice to meet you, Donghyuck! I’m no athlete like the rest of you,” Chenle giggles, resting his head on and wrapping his arms around Renjun’s shoulders. “I’m just a corporate heir.”

 

Donghyuck blinks to process that. “You mean you’re going to take over a business? A whole business?” He thought that only happened in movies.

 

“My father enjoys being old-fashioned.” Renjun brings up a hand to hang off of Chenle’s arm. It’s a decent explanation, so Donghyuck doesn’t push it, and he’d noticed that bringing up the topic had dimmed Chenle’s smile a little. “I’m going to steal Renjun now, but it was nice to meet both of you!” They say a few hurried goodbyes before Chenle is dragging Renjun away and Mark and Donghyuck are alone. He takes a deep breath, suddenly nervous without knowing why.

 

“You were amazing,” he breathes, having trouble staring Mark in the eyes as he says it. It feels strangely intimate when they’re alone. “Mark, you- you really did it.”

 

“I’ve told you before, Hyuck,” he whispers, bringing Donghyuck closer for a hug. “You were always my number one supporter. I couldn’t be here without you.”

 

Donghyuck feels every beat of his heart clearly, and he wonders if he’s always felt like this when he hugged Mark.

 

Mark wins another gold at Worlds the following month, and Donghyuck wins his second World Champion title at the 2018 World Archery Championship. The next year, Mark wins silver at the 4CC and wins another silver at Worlds. He’d calmed his routine down this time, putting less stress on himself – mostly because Donghyuck and Johnny forbade him from pushing himself to an injury. There’s no doubt that Mark is wholly aware that he risks an injury if he loads his routine too much, and Donghyuck knows he isn’t stupid, but when Mark’s the one who presents the idea of putting together a routine with every single quadruple jump they know, Donghyuck can’t let it slide. Mark’s an overachiever, but that’s too much, even for him.

 

Donghyuck isn’t any better. He’s been overexerting himself for the past year, and the strain is starting to make itself known in his shoulder. Mark’s been putting pressure on him to relax his training schedule, but Donghyuck knows that he’s young and steady, which is the only reason he shoots with both eyes open instead of continuing to shoot with one closed like an amateur. If he doesn’t continue to hone that skill, it’ll fade. He doesn’t let himself skip a single day, but when Mark arrives at his training field and wrestles the arrows out of his hands, he doesn’t have much choice but to cut back on his hours. Mark doesn’t argue after that, so Donghyuck thinks he’s satisfied him for now. The year passes like that, with Donghyuck and Mark stuck in the push and pull of working themselves too hard and then nagging each other to relax. In 2019, after Mark wins another gold at Worlds after choosing not to compete at the 4CC and Donghyuck is preparing for yet another World Archery Championship, Donghyuck gets his own call.

 

His immediate emotion is astonishment. He’d never thought Canada would notice him, would even care that he was an archer, much less ask him to represent them at the Olympics in Tokyo. But as Mark so eloquently put it when Donghyuck told him, “You’re one hell of a shot, Hyuck. If they didn’t choose you, they’re thinking about as straight as drunkards.”

 

Mark himself is ecstatic, overjoyed that Donghyuck is finally getting recognition for his talents. He gets him a cake and calls Renjun over Skype so that he can celebrate with them, and even though Donghyuck thinks it’s a little too over the top for simply being invited to the Olympics, Mark is quick to shut him down.

 

“Hyuck, this is a huge accomplishment! There are over 100,000 registered archers in Canada and they chose you!”

 

Donghyuck snorts. “I think being a two-time World Champion was part of that reasoning.”

 

“Exactly! Even if you don’t win anything, which I doubt will happen, you’ll still know that you’re the best Canada has to offer.” He avoids saying anything in response to that by stuffing a bite of red velvet cake in his mouth, hoping that his skin will come through for him and hide his blush. Renjun smiles cheekily on the screen and Donghyuck gives him a glare, telling him not to inflate Mark’s ego by agreeing with him. He understands why everyone else is so excited, but it doesn’t feel like that big of a milestone to him. Not yet, at least; he’s still got eight months before the Olympics.

 

At 19 years old, he’ll be the youngest previously medaled archer to compete in the Olympics on behalf of Canada. It’s mind-blowing, and even if he’s not as hyped as Mark is, he already feels the pressure.

 

“You’re coming with me, right?” It’s obviously directed at Mark, but Renjun interrupts him.

 

“Of course I am, Japan’s just a hop, skip, and a jump away. Did I use that phrase right?” Donghyuck grits his teeth.

 

“Yes,” he says, not without an accompanying glare.

 

“Of course I am, Hyuck. Wouldn’t miss it for anything.” That helps to relieve a little of the tension Donghyuck has already started to gain.

 

Donghyuck gets the biggest shock of his career when he meets the other two archers for the team event he’d qualified for. Before he’d gone professional and entered the international field, there’d been a famous archer from Canada who had won four titles at the World Championship, but an injury had forced Taeil Moon to leave the sport. For the past two years, Donghyuck hasn’t heard anything about him, but the smiling man greeting him can’t be anyone else.

 

“You’re Donghyuck Lee, right?” Taeil asks while leading him to the targets he and Sicheng Dong, the other archer on their team, had set up before he arrived. Donghyuck nods mutely, too starstruck to properly respond. He’s able to give Sicheng a quick wave before he’s back to following Taeil’s every movement. He feels vaguely like a puppy, and he knows Sicheng is stifling a laugh at his expense, but Taeil has been his role model since he won his first World Champion title after beating the returning champion as an unknown competitor.

 

“So, Monkey,” Donghyuck’s head cracks from how quickly he turns it toward Sicheng.

 

“I should’ve never told you about that,” he says coolly, eyes like daggers.

 

“You can regret it in your grave,” Sicheng shoots back. “As I was saying, how has practice been going for you?” It’s a loaded question, and Donghyuck thinks carefully about how to answer. Sicheng’s known him for two years, ever since the first World Championship he entered, but he has yet to find out how hard Donghyuck pushes himself. Towards what, he’s still trying to find out. He only knows that he feels like he’s falling behind.

 

“Practice has been fine,” he says stiffly. “The usual, four hours a day, workout afterward, five days a week.” Taeil raises an eyebrow.

 

“You can keep up with that kind of pace?” He sounds unsure, but then again, Donghyuck isn’t sure either.

 

“I’ve been doing fine up until now. Can I ask a question?”

 

“Shoot,” Taeil says. He laughs right after, and Sicheng rolls his eyes. “Get it? Cause we’re archers and we shoot?”

 

Donghyuck huffs a laugh in surprise. “Right. Well, I was wondering why you’re back without entering the World Championship.”

 

“Ah. Well, I took part in last year’s Continental Game, so that’s how I qualified, but as for why I didn’t enter World –.” Taeil winces slightly. “My shoulder injury acted up toward the beginning of the stages, so I wasn’t able to qualify for the Championship. It’s fine now, for the most part, but I guess at that point I was still in the recovery stage.” Donghyuck can only put on a sympathetic frown.

 

“You’ve been practicing even after that shoulder injury?”

 

“I’ve pretty much dedicated my life to this sport,” Taeil says simply, and even though his tone is even, there’s a hint of bittersweetness to it. “I can’t afford to let it go so easily.”

 

Sicheng and Taeil are close, and Donghyuck expects it considering how long they’ve been competing against each other and participating in team events. This’ll be their second Olympic appearance together – their previous partner, an older man named Edward, had gotten a shoulder injury severe enough to put him out of the sport indefinitely. Taeil’s friendly, but they had trouble getting over the initial awkwardness that presented itself. Were they acquaintances? Friendly rivals? Would they consider themselves on the path to becoming friends? Sicheng called bullshit on their formal approach and told them to just start calling each other hoes while shoving rice in his mouth.

 

Mark is surprised by their dynamic when he visits one of their practices. On this particular day, Sicheng and Donghyuck had strung a yoga ball on a rope (somehow), hung it off a beam on the ceiling (somehow), and dared Taeil to hit it from the ground. When Mark walks in, Taeil’s yelling at Sicheng, sitting off to the side with a packet of chocolate-covered almonds, for deliberately pulling them off track of training while still trying to hit the yoga ball. Donghyuck’s spread out on the grass on his stomach, too busy laughing his stomach out because of Taeil’s playful antics to pay attention to Mark’s appearance. In hindsight, it looks a little damning on Taeil’s part: he looks like he’s trying to kill his team with his words one by one. Mark gives him the benefit of the doubt, though, and sticks around even despite the colorful language Taeil used on Sicheng.

 

Donghyuck finally stops laughing long enough to notice that there are now three people on the indoor practice field, so he sits up to see the new person more clearly. When he recognizes Mark’s light-brown dyed hair, he waves a hand at him from across the field to come and join him. Donghyuck has to tear his eyes away from Mark as he jogs over, suddenly feeling too warm in his sweatshirt.

 

“Shouldn’t you be practicing for the next competition?” Donghyuck asks instead of asking why Mark was here at all. He knows why, Sicheng knows why, and after two months together, Taeil probably knows why too.

 

“Johnny let me have a day off,” Mark says, a cheeky smile on his face as he flops down on top of Donghyuck, who exhales heavily from the extra weight and coughs.

 

“You’re too heavy, get off,” he complains, and when Mark only giggles instead of doing what Donghyuck asked, he tries to shake him off. It doesn’t really work; in fact, it only serves to pull Mark even further onto him, and Donghyuck is perfectly aware of every position of Mark’s hands on him. He’s got a better idea of his feelings, and as cliché as it is, he finds himself thinking there’s no way Mark could feel the same. They’re best friends, always have been, and Donghyuck doesn’t like change much. He’d rather keep things the way they are, simple and easy.

 

The months before the Olympics pass by in a blur, and before Donghyuck can fully grasp the enormity of the situation, he’s in Tokyo and struggling to understand everything around him. He gravitates toward Sicheng, hoping that his knowledge of Chinese will be semi-useful in reading Japanese.

 

“They’re not even that similar anymore,” Sicheng grumbles when Taeil voices their plan.

 

“Then we’re right fu–,”

 

“Language, Donghyuck.” Donghyuck side eyes Taeil judgingly. “You’re on display for the world, remember that. You can’t be so free with your words anymore.” That’s the first stone thrown at his relatively calm mindset. His skin feels itchy all of a sudden, like the cameras pointed at him are bugs crawling all over him. Even his posture becomes stiffer, and Sicheng seems to notice.

 

“Taeil, you’ve gone and scared him.” Sicheng turns his head to him. “It’s not that intense, I promise. But he’s right, you have to be more careful about how you speak. People like to twist words around.” Donghyuck’s famous in the archery community, but he’s never been so publicized. He knows interviewers will care more about his answers and it’s unnerving knowing that he’s got to polish his image to reflect the ideas the world wants to hear.

 

“I need about four years of sleep to get ready for this,” he announces.

 

“You have about nine hours before breakfast,” Taeil interjects. “That’s the best I can do for you.”

 

“Hallelujah.”

 

The team gets escorted onto a few buses to take them to the hotel they’d be staying at for the duration of the game. They get in line to check-in, because apparently hotels wouldn’t make an exception for anything, and Donghyuck wants to collapse in the middle of the pristine lobby. It takes a whopping total of forty minutes for them to get to the counter, and even then, Donghyuck can’t get a break. They tell the receptionist their names and wait to be handed their room keys and numbers.

 

“Um, I’m sorry, but there seems to be a problem.” They all look at each other with pained grimaces. “We don’t have Taeil Moon in our accommodations list.”

 

“What?” Sicheng asks incredulously. “He’s already been back and competing for a year before now.”

 

“The system must have messed something up internally.”

 

Taeil takes a deep breath. “What do you mean the system messed up?” he asks. His voice is quieter than usual, a clear attempt to keep calm.

 

“It seems to be a miscommunication of the records,” the receptionist says. “We weren’t informed you became an active athlete again, so although you’re still qualified to compete in the Olympics, we didn’t have you listed in the accommodations. I can check to see if there’s an open room for you near your teammates.”

 

“That would be kind of you,” Taeil mumbles. Sicheng leans over to whisper in his ear.

 

“He’s begging the earth to swallow him whole. Taeil hates confrontations of any kind.”

 

“Understandable,” Donghyuck whispers back. After a few minutes searching through the system, the receptionist looks up, and from her apologetic smile, all three of them know it’s bad news.

 

“I’m sorry, it looks like there weren’t any open rooms near your team. However, there’s a room one floor below that two beds and only one person in it, so I added you into the listing. I hope that’s satisfactory.”

 

“Thank you for trying,” Taeil sighs. “What room number is it, and who am I sharing it with?”

 

“Room 217 with a track athlete from America named Taeyong Lee.” Taeil and Sicheng freeze up, and Donghyuck glances at both of them with pure confusion, wondering why they reacted so badly to that name.

 

“R-right,” Taeil stutters, clenching his jaw. “Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome. Good luck at your events!” When they’re down the hall from the receptionist and Donghyuck’s certain she won’t hear them, he asks his questions.

 

“Why did you do that when Taeyong got mentioned?” Sicheng’s eyebrows pinch together and Taeil frowns. They both seem to have a bad experience with the man.

 

“We met him at the last Olympics in Rio de Janeiro,” Sicheng explains, “and to condense over two weeks into four words, he was a dick.”

 

“He kept insulting us and saying archery wasn’t even a hard sport, so I’m not exactly ecstatic I have to share a room with him.” Taeil sighs and pushes the elevator button to take them up. When he steps out of the elevator onto the second floor, Donghyuck only has one thing to say.

 

“I’ll play What is Love at your funeral.”

 

“I resent that, play something cultured like Frank Ocean.”

 

The elevator doors close before Donghyuck can launch into his indignant rant that Haddaway is plenty cultured.

 

Twenty minutes later, there’s a furious knock on his and Sicheng’s shared room, and behind those knocks is a stormy-faced Taeil.

 

“Dick?” Sicheng asks.

 

“Dick.”

 

Even though Sicheng and Donghyuck both, repeatedly, say that it’s okay if Taeil shares their room, he’s adamant that he won’t give in. The moment he’s gone, once again off to face the enemy, Sicheng compares him to a stubborn donkey.

 

Somewhere in between familiarizing themselves with the field and targets and experiencing Tokyo, they forget about Taeyong the Dick entirely. The team event was first on the schedule for archery, so Taeil, Donghyuck, and Sicheng dominate the competition with an almost perfect score every round, ranging from 165 to 177. In the finals, they hardly break a sweat, finishing with the gold and a sense of urgency for the individual events. They would train separately for these, and their schedules for training didn’t match up in the slightest. Sicheng and Donghyuck missed all further developments between Taeil and Taeyong – although their only expectation that Taeil and Taeyong would continue fighting was shattered. It’s when Mark and Donghyuck are talking, psyching Donghyuck up for his first Olympic appearance, as someone who truly matters in the international athletic community, that they see it.

 

“You’re going to be fine,” Mark reassures, rubbing Donghyuck’s shoulder in an attempt to loosen it up a little. Donghyuck’s already done some warm-up exercises, but he lets Mark do it anyway because he likes the feeling of his hands – warm and solid and comforting.

 

“I hope so,” Donghyuck mumbles, his eyes closed and head tilted forward loosely. It’s part of the routine to rest his eyes as much as he can before he goes out to compete, just like it’s routine for Mark to talk to him before he heads out, either on the phone or in person.

 

“Don’t worry about Sicheng or Taeil–,”

 

“Sicheng isn’t a problem, but Taeil sure is,” Donghyuck snorts, rolling his eyes behind his eyelids. “Just because you believe in me that much, Mark, doesn’t mean Taeil has lost any of his talent. He’s even better than I am, and he has an advantage of being a returning Olympian.” Mark opens his mouth to argue, but his attention gets diverted.

 

“Hey, isn’t that him over there?” Lazily, he opens his eyes to quickly confirm or deny Mark’s suspicion, and he’s about to say that it is – until he notices that Taeil isn’t alone and that he’s talking to someone he doesn’t recognize.

 

“It is, but I’ve never seen the person he’s talking to.” He squints his eyes to focus harder on the other man’s features, but all Donghyuck can profile is dark red hair, a sharp jaw, and a height that is taller than Taeil, maybe by two inches. “He’s really thin, damn.”

 

“Is he another athlete?”

 

“He doesn’t look like he’s ready for any event.” After trying for a few more seconds, Donghyuck shrugs and gives up. “I’ll just ask Taeil, it’s no big deal.” Mark squeezes his shoulder one more time before letting go, and Donghyuck immediately misses his warmth.

 

“You’ll do great, Hyuck.”

 

Donghyuck forgets everything except Mark’s parting words when he steps up to shoot his sets, and it’s a mantra he repeats for the rest of the competition. He passes the first round with a relatively wide margin, the second with a narrower margin, and the third round with only a single set difference. He expected himself to feel antsy and intimidated, but a calmness has settled over him like a peaceful ocean. He doesn’t feel the need to overanalyze everything, which weirds him out in a certain way. Every other competition has been spent with him analyzing each person’s tendencies, analyzing what he needs to do in order to keep his form perfect. It’s always been a constant process of using other competitors as a way of improving, but he hasn’t been focusing on the competitors at all.

 

After the third round, they have the final rounds. He clears the quarterfinals, but he hears through the grapevine while waiting that Sicheng got defeated by an Australian, some name he didn’t catch – or care enough to listen more closely for. Taeil’s still in, and so is a Korean by the name of Bang Sunwoo. Donghyuck’s up against Sunwoo next, which, quite frankly, was the only reason the name stuck in his head.

 

The moment he approaches Sunwoo to shake his hand, he already feels the intensity with which he shoots. His handshake is strong, rough, unrelenting, and Donghyuck can tell he has an insanely steady aim. It’s almost a premonition of sorts, except physical. Donghyuck isn’t surprised when he loses by two sets, but it begins a fire in him. There’s no doubt that Sunwoo, who’s only 17, will be at the next Olympics in Paris, and he intends to be there for a rematch. In the bronze medal match, he’s up against the Australian that Sicheng lost to, John Martin, and just before he goes up to shoot his first set, he notices Mark standing next to a familiar face. A surprised smile crosses his face and he gives Renjun a discreet salute, a silent thank you for coming like he said he would.

 

The Australian is good, but he must have barely beat Sicheng because his third set was a trainwreck to watch. Donghyuck physically winced each time the arrow lodged itself into the red rings. He only got one nine off that one, which let Donghyuck take a solid lead off of what would be an otherwise close match, and he wins three of the five sets, eliciting a steady cheer and applause from the crowd. His first instinct is to look at Mark, but when he sees Renjun jumping in excitement, his hair flying up every time he comes down, the smile he gave turns into a choked laugh as he tries to suppress it.

 

He’s finally allowed to leave the field after five impromptu interviews about how he feels about his first Olympic win and about how he made it to this stage, fears of injuries and the skills of other players, and he takes a page out of Mark’s book and answers everything in the vaguest fashion he can. He’s too mentally drained to consider a full interview right now, and he just wants to get back to Renjun and Mark in the waiting room where he can relax.

 

The moment he opens the door, Renjun is hugging him, roughly swinging him around and laughing. Donghyuck stiffens in his hold, not expecting so much enthusiasm from the normally sardonic and wry Renjun he’d come to know, but he relaxes easily into the hug.

 

“You’re really good, Donghyuck! Congratulations on the medal!”

 

“Ah, thank you, Renjun. Honestly, I just want to sleep for the next three days. I’m drained.” Renjun releases him, but Donghyuck doesn’t get any time to collect himself before he’s being pulled toward Mark for another hug. He panics a little internally, the sudden proximity to Mark and that strange fruity scent he has overwhelming him for the longest few seconds. He remembers to be a normal human and return Mark’s hug, but his heartbeat refuses to slow down.

 

“I told you that you would be fine,” Mark says next to his ear. Donghyuck breathes in slow counts, nodding as much as he can with his head on Mark’s shoulder.

 

“I didn’t do as well as you did.” Mark pulls away and frowns.

 

“That doesn’t matter, Hyuck. You put your all into it, and now you have a medal. You did exactly what I did, and with something that requires so much precision and focus.” He taps Donghyuck’s temple with his knuckles admonishingly. “Don’t put yourself down so much.”

 

With a smooth topic change, Donghyuck attempts to put his internal panic behind him. “How did Taeil do?”

 

“I think he won,” Renjun pipes up, and Donghyuck whirls around from surprise. “Yes, I’m still here, Donghyuck. So nice of you to take notice of me again.” Donghyuck feels his cheeks heat up and he narrows his eyes at Renjun in a mock-threatening manner.

 

“That’s awesome!” Donghyuck steps back so he can see Mark and Renjun at the same time. “By how much?” Mark asks afterward.

 

“I’m not entirely sure how archery works, but I think by one set?”

 

“That must have been a close match,” Donghyuck wonders out loud. “I’m gonna try to find him.” Mark and Renjun shrug and let Donghyuck lead them wherever he wishes.

 

As they search the waiting room and the locker area, they find Sicheng napping on a couch, and being how he is, Donghyuck doesn’t miss the opportunity to jump onto Sicheng and wake him up in the most violent way possible. Sicheng’s gasp of pain when Donghyuck jumps on his legs and pushes them into the hard leather couch makes Renjun cackle, and the stink eye Donghyuck gets afterward is absolutely worth it, in his humble opinion.

 

“So what was the point of waking me up from my well-deserved nap?” Sicheng snarks as he follows Donghyuck.

 

“Well, for one thing, I won the bronze,” Donghyuck boasts, “and for the second thing, we have to find Taeil and find out for sure if he won against Sunwoo because Renjun over here,” he points at him, “is useless at providing us factual information.”

 

“You simply refuse to take my word for it,” Renjun sniffs haughtily, tilting his head up playfully.

 

“I don’t see how me being awake helps in any aspect of finding Taeil,” Sicheng complains. “You could’ve done this without me.”

 

“I know, it’s just more fun to put you through misery.” Mark suddenly grabs Donghyuck’s shoulder and turns him around.

 

“I think I just saw him.” He points to the hallway they’d just passed.

 

“Well then, let’s get him and–,” Sicheng cuts himself off and suddenly stomps down the hall, jolting the Donghyuck and the others forward to follow him.

 

“Hey, asshat, don’t you think you’ve insulted our sport enough?” Sicheng seethes, pushing the person – Taeyong? – away from Taeil roughly. “Now you think cornering our medalist is a good idea too?” Donghyuck’s eyes frantically take in the situation, from Taeyong’s shock to Taeil’s uneasy attempts to push Sicheng away.

 

“Uh, Sicheng?”

 

“What?” he snaps, drilling holes into Taeyong with his eyes.

 

“Taeyong wasn’t insulting me this time,” Taeil interrupts, pushing at Sicheng’s shoulder to get him to give Taeyong some space again. The track athlete looks a little dazed and confused, but Donghyuck chalks it up to the suddenness of Sicheng’s accusations, not the accusations themselves. “He was congratulating me for winning gold.” That makes Donghyuck pause and stare at Taeil incredulously.

 

“You were calling him a dick three days ago?” he says, making it sound like a question. Taeil looks at Taeyong sheepishly.

 

“No, it’s okay, I kinda deserved it.” Taeyong rubs his arm. “I said some really insensitive and rude things about your sport, and I never realized how hard you had to work for it.” Sicheng watches him with the same hard expression, and Donghyuck wonders if the apology means anything to him. He doesn’t realize how much his muscles are screaming at him to relax his shoulders until Mark massages them. He wonders how Mark knew he needed it.

 

“You’re an asshole, Taeyong,” Sicheng finally says, “but I’m giving you a chance. Thank Taeil for that.”

 

“The medal ceremony is gonna start soon, Taeil.” Donghyuck motions back toward the field. “We should go.”

 

“Right.” He looks back at Taeyong. “Thanks. For coming.”

 

“Least I could do,” Taeyong mumbles. Taeil lingers even after that, as if wanting to do or say something else, but Sicheng pulls him away before he can. Donghyuck spends a long time wondering what exactly could have made both Taeil and Taeyong civil to each other.

 

Mark approaches him one day and, out of the blue, hands him a team member card. When Donghyuck asks why, Mark says it’s because he’s tired of waiting to meet him at the end of every competition. This way, Donghyuck has access to the team areas that he couldn’t get into before. He stares at the card in awe and wonders if he’s reading too deeply into this. If Mark wanting to see him immediately after competitions has no underlying meaning, because as far as he knows, best friends don’t do this very often. He remembers Renjun one time offhandedly – although he now suspects it was more intentional than that – commenting that he and Chenle used to best friends until they started dating. Like always, Donghyuck pushes it deep, deep down, and tells himself he’s gotta stop.

 

The 2021 Worlds are back, and Mark has to defend his title. It’s strange to be a part of the process this time around. Donghyuck has gotten to see the inner workings of Mark’s team right before his performances, and he’s gotten to stand next to him until the moment he left for the rink. It’s strange because he’s always had to wait for Mark in the stands, wait for him to come out, wait for him once he’s finished for two hours. Not to say that he misses the long waits, but it feels different. He’s allowed to stand closer to the rink too, so he hasn’t missed anything Mark has done.

 

It’s as if Mark flips a switch when he needs to compete. When he’s with Mark, he’s always been happy and energetic, a little scattered as he talks with Donghyuck about the excitement for this year. Before he steps foot on the ice, though, Mark becomes focused and blank. He molds himself into the persona he has to show on the ice, and Donghyuck has never seen him do it before. The first time he tried to joke with Mark in that state, he got a blank face in return, even though he could see Mark’s eyes shining with mirth. It was jarring back then, but Donghyuck’s used to it now. He can usually tell exactly when Mark’s about to use it too.

 

The short program had Mark in first place since one of his fiercest competitors, a Japanese man named Yuto Noguchi, had gotten an ankle injury earlier in the season. He was the only one who took risks of the caliber that Mark did, so Donghyuck wasn’t expecting a heavy loss or even a non-podium finale. He sends his well wishes with a navy blue and turquoise-suited Mark and doesn’t think too hard about the free skate to follow.

 

He sees everything in slow motion when Mark does his third jump, only in the first half of the program. He tries a quadruple flip, a harder jump but nothing that Mark hasn’t done with ease in the past, but his jump is just the right kind of wrong that it puts up a red flag in his mind. Donghyuck catches a glimpse of Mark’s face as he spins, a grimace, tight across his face, and then he falls and all Donghyuck sees is the red. He feels frozen, a prisoner of his own immobility, and then he’s running away from where he was standing next to Johnny, away from everyone telling him to stop, and he’s skidding and tripping on the ice to get to Mark. He’s pushing himself up on one side, and that small action sends a wave of relief crashing over Donghyuck’s heart, but the blood is still trickling down the side of his face like a minuscule river, and Donghyuck feels the numbness come back. He stumbles to his knees next to Mark and hovers his hands around Mark, unsure of what to do, how to help. No matter how much he’s worried about this happening, he’s never actually thought about what to do if it did.

 

“Mark?” he whispers shakily, begging for something, anything, to give him an idea of what to do. He knows that concussion injuries shouldn’t be moved much to keep the brain from being further damaged, so he gently cups Mark’s head and brings it down to his lap. He tries to block out the bright arena lights from shining on Mark’s face as best as he can with his body while the medics arrived.

 

“Hyuck? What happened?” Mark’s voice is tiny, barely over a whisper, like he doesn’t fully remember how to use his voice. Donghyuck barely hears it over the sound of everyone else in the arena even though he’s right next to him. He can’t make himself say it because otherwise it would become real, fixed, an unchangeable memory.

 

“Everything’s gonna be fine, Mark,” he says. The medics arrive and tell him to move so that they can put Mark on the stretcher. He feels nauseous when he realizes that Mark’s blood is all over the ice. “You’ll be okay.”

 

“Hyuck.” Mark reaches out a hand to grasp Donghyuck’s even as he gets lifted onto the stretcher. “You know I love you, right? You’ll always be my first love.” Donghyuck’s lips part in surprise and he opens his mouth without having anything to say. His mind is working too slowly to process what Mark said, and before he can catch up with reality, Mark’s already being taken to the ambulance and he’s left sitting on the ice. Johnny slips over to him using the barrier.

 

“Donghyuck, what were you thinking!” he asks, not exactly angrily, but concerned? Donghyuck doesn’t really understand his tone. He’s still looping Mark’s words “first love” over and over.

 

“I wasn’t really thinking,” he answers hollowly. He takes the hand Johnny offers to help him get closer to the barrier so he could stand up.

 

“Come on, we’re driving to the hospital.” Donghyuck blinks.

 

“Are we allowed to do that?”

 

“Why the hell aren’t we? I’m his coach, I better be allowed to follow him.” It’s at times like this that Donghyuck realizes how grateful he is that Johnny is Mark’s coach. He’s straight-forward with his expectations and doesn’t sugarcoat things like other people. Most importantly, he doesn’t take shit from anyone, and once he’s decided to do something, he’s hell-bent on following through.

 

Johnny’s car squeals through intersections and turns as he twists the wheel forcefully, pushing the limit as much as he can to get them to the hospital as quickly as possible. Donghyuck grips the grab handle as tightly as he can, both from fear for Mark and Johnny’s driving. The thought crosses his mind that he may end up in a hospital bed next to Mark if he keeps putting himself in situations like this. Thankfully, on Johnny’s next left turn, he catches sight of the top of the hospital building, and three minutes later, they’ve screeched into a parking space in the lot. Donghyuck scrambles out of the car the moment Johnny’s hand moves to the put the car in Park and he slams the door in his haste, wincing at the noise. He doesn’t spend even a second looking back to see if Johnny had anything to say about it. Priority number one was finding out what Mark’s situation was. Priority two was figuring out what the hell Mark meant when he said “first love”.

 

It’s not surprising when they’re not allowed to see Mark. Donghyuck knows enough about hospitals from bad tv shows that they only allow immediate family to see the patient once they’re through with the surgery. Any other visitors have to wait at least a day after surgery to see them. It doesn’t help Donghyuck’s anxiety with the situation as he suddenly starts thinking of all the worst possibilities that come with a head injury. He searches for something to help him ground himself, but the only thing that comes to mind is calling Renjun. So he does that.

 

After a few rings filled with nervous pacing from Donghyuck, Renjun picks up. He sounds tired, but Donghyuck can’t bring himself to feel too bad.

 

“Donghyuck, it’s too early for,” he trails off into Mandarin, probably complaining about the early time.

 

“Renjun, Mark’s in the hospital.” He gives Renjun time to process and understand what he just said.

 

“He’s what?” Renjun asks, disbelief lacing his tone.

 

“He’s got a head injury, possible concussion,” he explains robotically, condensing the report the nurse had given Johnny. “He’s in surgery. I have no idea how long it’ll take.”

 

“How did he get it?” Donghyuck hears the rustling of Renjun’s clothes on the other end of the line, and he tries to center himself in the conversation.

 

“A jump went wrong,” he mumbles, falling into a nearby chair, completely exhausted and feeling tears prickling against his closed eyelids. He pushes them back, refusing to cry in the middle of a hospital.

 

“Donghyuck, you don’t sound alright.”

 

“To be honest, Renjun, I don’t feel alright. Everything feels wrong.” He rubs a hand over his eyes, feeling the unwanted wetness on his fingers with a distinct clarity. “He told me he loved me, Renjun. That I’ll always be his first love. What does that even mean?” He hates the way his voice cracks on the question. He hates that it makes the tears more difficult to keep at bay.

 

“He told you he loved you? When?”

 

“Before they loaded him on the stretcher and left. He probably wasn’t thinking clearly. He probably–,”

 

“–Stop trying to keep yourself from happiness, Donghyuck. This might be your one and only chance,” Renjun advises firmly.

 

“What if–,”

 

“–Excuse my language, but fuck the what ifs, Donghyuck.” Donghyuck feels slightly taken back. “You have nothing to lose. Mark isn’t going to push you away over your feelings.”

 

After a contemplative silence, Donghyuck speaks again. “I don’t want things to change between us,” he quietly admits. “We’ve always been comfortable with each other just the way we are. I don’t want to ruin that.”

 

“So you’re gonna back out, huh. Even though you know how this could end.”

 

Donghyuck bristles at Renjun’s tone. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Renjun? I’m not just scared, I’m terrified. I’m absolutely fucking terrified of change, and this could be the biggest one yet, and you want me to just throw myself into it?”

 

“That’s exactly what I’m asking. Because there’s never going to be a good way to prepare yourself, Donghyuck. Do you believe I thought I even had a chance with Chenle? He’s a business heir and my best friend and completely oblivious to love. But you have to dive into it, headfirst.” Renjun pauses. “Did I use that phrase right?” His question pulls a strained laugh out of Donghyuck, and he shakes his head defeatedly before putting his head in his free hand.

 

“Fine,” he says, choking up, “fine, I’ll ask, I’ll take the jump, the dive, the whatever.”

 

“Good. Now, I’m going back to sleep, but please update me when Mark wakes up.” ‘When’, not ‘if’, and Donghyuck takes his word for it. A skater must know their kinds of injuries best.

 

The hours pass like a snail, the ticking of the clock too loud in the typical somber silence of the waiting room. He doesn’t really want to be disturbed, but he also can’t stand the inactivity. It’s a curse and a blessing when Johnny returns.

 

“Hey, Donghyuck.” He sits down next to him. “They’re saying he’s finished surgery and he’s getting put in the PACU. We won’t be able to see him until tomorrow, though.” Donghyuck nods. This wasn’t something he hadn’t already figured out. “We can’t stay here overnight, Donghyuck,” Johnny says gently, placing a hand on Donghyuck’s shoulder. Even though he already knew that, when it actually gets spoken and acknowledges, there’s a panic that shoots through him and makes him freeze. It’s so irrational, and Donghyuck hates how his emotional instability is making everything seem like a bigger deal than it really is. The fact that Johnny’s completely reasonable and logical statement is making the tears he’s been trying so hard to hold back break his invisible barrier and slip out is definitely not doing favors for his perception of himself.

 

“What if he wakes up alone?” Donghyuck mumbles weakly. “We don’t know how much he’ll be aware of.”

 

“The nurses will know how to handle him,” Johnny reassures.

 

It doesn’t help Donghyuck in the slightest, but he’s tired, so exhausted of today that he just wants to fall asleep long enough that everything causing his emotional turmoil will disappear. So he follows Johnny back to his car wordlessly and melts into the seat, staring blankly outside at the street lamps illuminating the roads and nearby buildings. Johnny drove more calmly this time, more often than not driving under the speed limit as they traveled back to the hotel. Donghyuck replays the memory of Mark getting injured over and over, unable to stop or imagine anything else. The fear has abated, replaced with a stifling blanket of apprehension over what he has to tell Mark tomorrow.

 

He falls asleep in Mark’s bed, too stressed to worry about how weird it might seem. Some bit of familiarity is what he needs right now.

 

He wakes up to find texts from Taeil, Sicheng, Chenle, and even Lucas, all concerned about both him and Mark. He reads through them all, but he can’t muster the energy to reply to any. Everything feels heavy and impossible, but he pushes himself out of bed and stumbles around getting ready. He doesn’t look in the mirror at all, afraid of seeing the mess of a man he feels like.

 

Johnny knocks on his door and asks if he’s ready. The last thing Donghyuck wants is to leave the bubble of comfort he’d created in this room, but he opens the door and leaves. Today has too much riding on it.

 

Unlike yesterday, when they were able to go to and from the hospital with relative ease, they’re plagued with reporters the moment they leave the hotel, asking about updates to Mark’s situation and how they themselves feel. Donghyuck holds back the urge to gag when he thinks about how he feels. Johnny gives the sharks vague answers and pulls Donghyuck through to his car, where they get a short respite of peace. It only lasts the twenty-minute drive to the hospital, but Donghyuck soaks in every second of it. His hands are clamming up, he notices when they pull into the hospital lot.

 

He remembers what leads up to him meeting Mark again in flashes of sudden clarity.

 

“He’s stable,” the doctor says, “so he’s allowed visitors, but only one at a time.”

 

Donghyuck bounces his leg anxiously as he waits for Johnny to come out.

 

The clock reads 9:48.

 

Johnny shakes his shoulder. “Donghyuck, wake up.” He cracks open his eyes and squints against the light to focus on Johnny’s face. “He’s a little tired, but he really wants to see you.” Donghyuck swallows, wincing at the dryness of his lips and throat.

 

“Okay.”  He stands up, rolls his neck around to get the cricks out. He walks to room 425 and puts a hand on the knob, breathing carefully to regulate his heartbeat. He imagines this as just another competition: he needs to still himself, focus on the only thing that matters in that moment. He turns the knob and pushes the door open.

 

Mark’s already watching him, not in the slightest bit startled by his entrance. He looks a little distant, but Donghyuck reminds himself that he was under anesthesia not even twenty-four hours ago. The silence is too loud, filled with words he doesn’t want to say but that push at his lips anyway. He closes the door and sits down in the cushioned chair next to Mark’s bed. He doesn’t exactly know what to say or how to start the conversation he needs to get off his chest.

 

“How do you feel?” It’s a safe question, if a little impersonal. But priority number one was to make sure he was okay.

 

“There’s a huge bump on the side of my head and my brain feels like mush,” Mark says a little airily, “but I’m gonna be okay. They did concussion testing and said that I shouldn’t be doing too much activity for a few days.”

 

“That’s good.” It’s never been so discomforting between them like this. Donghyuck almost wants to blurt everything out, just to get it out of the way. Mark beats him to the punch.

 

“I meant it, you know.” Donghyuck’s mouth clamps shut at the implications of his words. He can only be talking about one thing. Mark fiddles with his hands. “I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable, but,” he pauses awkwardly. “I had to tell you.” He can only blink, too surprised to make a coherent thought. He’d spent hours trying to plan every word of his confession with the assumption that Mark either meant it platonically or didn’t remember it at all. Mark must’ve taken his silence negatively because he seems to shrink in on himself. Donghyuck forces his mouth to move, to say something.

 

“I- what? You meant it?” he winces at himself. “I mean. You remember that?”

 

“Hyuck, I got a concussion, not amnesia.”

 

“Right, but.” But. But what? Why is he still trying to find reasons to disprove the small hope that there could be a chance? Why was he so scared of making himself happy? Why couldn’t he take this leap of faith that Mark would catch him, no matter the outcome? He hears Renjun’s voice say, “You’re afraid of losing him.”

 

He’s been afraid of losing Mark this whole time. A hundred revelations go through his head, all with the same theme. He doesn’t want to lose Mark.

 

“You love me,” Donghyuck whispers, not a question this time. An answer.

 

“Hyuck, you’re crying? Shit, is it because of me?” Mark leans forward as if to wipe away the tears that Donghyuck felt on his cheekbones, but he holds up a hand to stop him and wipes them away on his own.

 

“Sorry, I just need a moment.” He takes a deep breath to recollect himself and stares at the white bed sheets. He doesn’t think he can get through this if he looks at Mark. “I’ve been trying to stop loving you for over a year because I convinced myself that I would rather be your best friend than suffer a fallout. I was so scared of us becoming uncomfortable with each other that I hated the thought of initiating any change.” Despite his best efforts, he felt the tears fall even farther down his cheeks. He twists himself away from Mark for a moment. “Sorry, this is a fucking mess. I’m so bad at confessing,” he laughs, but it comes out choked and cracked.

 

“Hyuck, come here.” Mark holds his arms out for Donghyuck, and despite his intentions to keep Mark from seeing his vulnerability, he accepts it, clinging to his arms to ground him. The room is blurry and unfocused and he just wants this to be over so that they can fall back into their comfortable rhythm. Mark doesn’t say anything as Donghyuck waits for the tears to go away, knowing full well how much he hates them. He gives a nod when he feels okay.

 

“I don’t want you to feel obligated to be anything with me if you don’t feel comfortable with it,” he starts, and Donghyuck immediately feels the need to interrupt and explain. “Hold on just a minute. I know you don’t like uncertain changes, things that you don’t know what the outcome will be like. But I’m willing to go at whatever pace you want.”

 

“Will you wait?” Donghyuck asks, feeling so tiny in that moment asking something so monumental. Mark didn’t need to wait for him to pull himself together for the prospect of a relationship, but there was the smallest hope that he would.

 

“Yeah. I’ll wait however long you need me to.”

 

For the first time, Donghyuck doesn’t feel like he’s chasing after something attainable. It’s right next to him, waiting with an outstretched hand for when he wants to take it, for when he finally wants to take the jump.

**Author's Note:**

> [my twitter!](https://twitter.com/timelessidyll)   
>  [my curiouscat!](https://curiouscat.me/timelessidyll)


End file.
